War
by The Versatile Scarf
Summary: Who said Mark couldn't hold his liquor? Warning: Language, Alcohol


War

By: Subarashi Kage

Meaningless fun. Wanted to write something amusing after the angst-filled thing I just submitted.

Warnings: Alcohol, language. It's really quite short.

SummarY: Who said Mark couldn't hold his liquor?

x-x-x-x-x

"War, bet again." Another shot glass was nearly slammed onto the table, and Maureen went about filling it up with a liquid from a rather large pitcher that she had managed to pilfer from Joanne's kitchen before making her merry way down to the loft the two boho boys shared, before placing it beside a pitcher of almost exactly the same make. Boy's night in, someone had suggested, which would bring us to the question of why the hell Maureen Johnson, self-proclaimed Drama Queen and performance artist, was sharing a special evening with her favorite men. 'Boy's' didn't really specify a gender in her opinion, and hell. She wouldn't give up the opportunity aid the the three of them in going well beyond the legal limit of alcohol blood content, now would she?

Of course not.

The glass that she had just filled up with stoli had been placed in front of Mark Cohen, aspiring filmmaker. A glass, almost identical, was in front of Roger Davis, rock-star extraordinaire, and filled with the same liquid, though from a different container. The drunker they got, the harder it would be to keep track of just how many shots they had downed. So, the pitchers had been filled up equally, and Mark had one, Roger the other. Collins was their self-appointed referee--he'd rather just drink. Waiting until he lost a hand would -really- be annoying, and he'd probably get impatient and just down the entire pitcher before his opponent even took three drinks. He was just that kind of person.

"Winner, Roger." His words were already getting slurred. Good thing a referee wasn't really needed for the game of war.

The blonde's nose scrunched up as he reached for the glass Maureen had filled, before downing it quickly. Holy shit. "Next." He grinned, shuffling the cards that Roger had handed to him, a smug look on the musician's face.

It was common knowledge that Mark could not hold his liquor, and therefore this game was set against him. The rules they had come up with were the first to get to the bottom of the pitcher loses.. or the first to get so drunk he couldn't see straight would suffer the same fate and be ridiculed for days on end until something else caught their attention. The point of the game was to -not- get drunk.. and therefore, both Collins and Mark were very, very bad at it. Roger was the king, or so he had said when someone suggested the game for this evening. Maureen had given him a look that basically said 'Well, we'll see about that' before disappearing into the kitchen to fill up both pitchers and grab the shot glasses as they began dealing the cards out.

War was a childish game, yes, but one that they could still concentrate on when absolutely shit-faced. It was either this or go fish, and since the party had gotten started -late-, they wanted to get drunk, fast. Go Fish was a slow-paced game, unfortunately, but it always lended its help to creating more laughs. Especially that one time that Roger got so smashed that he couldn't remember what to say in response to his not having the card that Collins asked for.

_"Got any threes?"  
"Go.. uh... come.. go... whashit?"  
"... Roger, what game are we playing?"  
"Go Fish." Definitely slurring of the word 'fish'.  
"... and what do we say?"  
"... go fuck yourself?"  
"... close enough."_

"War." The slapping of cards once more, and for once it was Mark who conquered Roger, his King of Aces over a ten of Spades. Perhaps luck was on his side tonight. With that thought in mind, they continued on through the game. Collins was lost to them a mere ten minutes after, snoring on the metal table he had wandered over to at some point in time. He fell asleep to Maureen's giggled cry of "War, bet again!"

Sometime during the night the woman had fished the blankets from the boy's rooms, throwing them over the three sleeping forms, before leaving. Apparently, she had had money to call a cab, or some other way of making it home safely.

This was made obvious by the screechy voice coming, amplified, from the message machine.

_"SPEAK._ "MARK, ROGER, COLLINS! GOOD MOO-OORNING." By this point in time the last one of the list of names had rolled off of the metal table and was presently grimacing, his headache only made worse by the fact that Maureen had appointed herself as their official 'wake-up call'. The hell was she thinking? Getting shakily to his feet, he attempted to stumble over to the phone, though Roger had had much the same idea. As the latter stood, the two collided; the musician fell back into his chair while Collins stepped rapidly backwards, falling onto the couch. Mark was the one who saved the day. He nearly sauntered out of his room, picked up the phone, and calmly told the woman on the other line that they were all away, thank-you very much.

Click.

"How are you two feeling, then?"

A simultaneous groan was his only answer. Smiling, he lifted the cup of tea he held to his lips, sipping deeply and secretly enjoying seeing the other two in pain. "I have two cups of tea ready for you two. I figured you'd need it."

Two cups of tea and a couple of aspirin later, the three were seated around the dilapitated coffee table, Mark and Collins on the couch while Roger remained in the armchair he had declared his.

"Shit, Mark.. I thought -you- would be the first to get drunk." After all, he had been the one losing most often.

"I guess I just got lucky last night, then."

Roger nodded, though the movement seemed to hurt. "Jesus.. Next time we're playing poker. I'm the king at poker."

"Mhm." Was the Jewish blonde's only respond as he lifted the cup to his lips once more. Hidden behind the white china, a grin spread widely.

He'd have to thank Maureen for putting water in his pitcher later.

x-x-x-x-x

Silliness.


End file.
